Spring
by illyria-pffyffin
Summary: An itching Frodo, a drunk Arwen and a jacuzzi.


A/N: I have been merciless with Arwen in this fic.  Let it be known that I have never considered Arwen to be capable of getting drunk and spilling her love woes to any unfortunate hobbits she runs into.  I have the greatest respect for her and believe that even PMS will never rattle her.  

Warning: Lethal level of inanity ahead  

To Arathlithiel.  This is what happens when you tickles the naughtier side of me.  Thanks.

**_SPRING_**

****

Never eat anything that looks remotely like spiders.  Never.

Frodo scratches his neck disgustedly.  _Crabs, he fumed, _pah!_  _A travesty of orc is a more likely definition.  Those huge pincers, the tough, blotchy red carapace that required a sizable mallet to break open; what could be more orcish than that?_  He scratches his left ear and his chest.  __And they caught it in Lebennin!  He scratches his right armpit, then his left. __Lebennin, southern waters, what does it tell you?  Who knows what the Haradrim spill into the waters at the mouths of the Anduin?  Nothing out of that water can be considered edible, even in the direst circumstances.  Especially a crab the size of pumpkin, sporting legs nearly as long as Anduril.  He scratches both of his ears__.  Who has ever heard of a crab so large?  He scratches frantically at his knees and ankles.  _Maybe the giant crabs were meant to be put into the service of Sauron.  They would make the perfect army, those crabs.  Tough armor, lethal pincers, sweet meat.  _He scratches his soles._

_It did taste wonderful though_, Frodo muses as he scrapes his inner thighs.  _Sweet, pearly white meat, flaky, with that indefinable exquisite smell…  He twists and scratches his shoulder, stifling an oath when even the most bizarre act of contortionism fails to reach that elusive, itching spot right in the middle of his back.   With an exasperated groan he reaches for the brush lying next to him and starts raking furiously: back, shoulders, hip.  _

His windows are open and a stiff wind dances with the soft curtains, but he sweats from the prolonged scratching, scratching, scratching; his perspiration stinging the open sores where his frantic fingers have abraded his skin.  He sighs as he collapses exhausted on his bed.  

Even his tongue itches.

He has tried everything.  He has taken baths, hot and cold, each twice.  He has dusted himself thoroughly with the powder that the healers prescribed for Pippin along with the kindly advice to take off and clean his Gondorian armor every once in a while.  He has smeared the sweet-smelling greenish lotion Sam got for the burn on his legs and feet from that time when he tried his hand at cooking in the Man-sized kitchen of their quarters.  Nothing helps.

Part of him is glad that no one is around to witness his very embarrassing condition.  Sam had left after breakfast—with repeated assurances from Frodo that his master would do just fine without him—to go with Bergil to the renowned Snow Garden of Gondor, where in special chambers flowers are tended so that they will bloom even in winter.  Merry received an invitation to come to King Eomer's pavilion last night and was off early in the morning.  Pippin and Gandalf rode to Ithilien with Aragorn and his council members yesterday and will not be returning for at least three more days.   Legolas and Gimli, as always, spend their day roaming Minas Tirith, discussing plans for the city's restoration.

The other part of Frodo, however, wishes desperately that his companions were around.  He could certainly use three more pairs of hand to scratch him thoroughly.  He also finds himself regretting that there were no trees near the pavilion he shares with the other hobbits and Gandalf.  At the moment he is willing to pay any price to be able to rub his itching back against rough tree bark.  But the little house is surrounded with nothing but flower beds and a few short shrubs.  And none of those shrubs sport decent thorns to scratch with.

"My lord."  A familiar voice calls from outside his door.  Frodo jolts to a sitting position and stares at the door with annoyance.  He still feels uncomfortable being addressed as _lord by the young esquire stationed at the pavilion.  But no one has so far been able to make the esquire see that simply because the hobbits are on first name basis with the king they are by no means monarchs from far away lands.  "A message has just arrived from the palace."_

"What does it say?" Frodo growls.

"The Queen requests the pleasure of your company, my lord, at tea time today.  What shall I tell the messenger, lord?"

Frodo curses and scratches his backside frantically.  He cannot see the Queen in the state he is in.  The thought of putting on clothes alone irks him and thinking of walking the short distance to the palace on his itching soles mortifies him.  And what if he cannot help scratching in front of the Queen!  

But there is no way out of the situation.  If he begs the Queen to excuse him, he is sure that she will come herself to see if he is all right—especially since she knows that none of his companions are around.   Better to see her all prepared than to have her come into his room unannounced and catch him scratching a very intimate part of his anatomy, which at the moment is itching dreadfully.

He sighs wearily.  "Tell the messenger to thank the Queen for me.  I shall certainly come."

Maybe if he takes another hot bath it will pass.  Or maybe he can just drown himself in the bath and spare himself the embarrassment.

He scratches his nose in exasperation.

***

While the lady-in-waiting turns her back on him, he takes advantage of the situation by scratching his backside.

"Your Majesty," calls the woman reverently.  "The Halfling Frodo Baggins."

She opens the door wider and Frodo walks out into one of the more private terraces where the King and Queen entertain their closest friends.  

"My lady."  Frodo bows low, furtively scratching his breast.

"My dear Frodo," greets the Queen sweetly, her voice like chimes in gentle wind.  "Come and sit here beside me."

He walks to the white wooden swing where the Queen sits, and climbs onto it, sitting back and self-consciously folding his hands on his lap to keep himself from scratching.  He stares at the Queen.

She is, as always, the perfect picture of loveliness.  But now Frodo senses a shadow of sadness in her bright, grey eyes.  More than that, he believes he sees evidence of a recent bout of crying on the Queen's smooth, white cheeks.  And on the table next to the swing, there are two slender bottles—one empty and the other nearly so—of what is unmistakably Lorien-made wine.  Frodo had tasted it while the company sojourned in Caras Galadhon, and while nothing he has ever drunk can ever hope to vie with the delightful sensation of the light golden liquid washing down his throat, he also remembers that it took mere sips to send him careering into oblivion, and that the morning after he had begged Sam to tie him down to his bed because he was mortally afraid he might float up to the sky and burst into a million bubbles.

"My Lady," he ventures carefully.  "Has anything happened?  You have been weeping."

The Queen gazes at Frodo, trying unsuccessfully to put up a brave smile, and a drop of crystalline tear slides down her cheek.   "It is naught but loneliness, dear Frodo," she says in a low-tone.  Another rivulet trails its way down the lovely face, catching the rays of the afternoon sun, and Frodo scoots forward and offers her his handkerchief.

"Thank you," whispers Arwen, dabbing her face with the white cloth.  "I do not wish you to think that I have invited you only to while away the time until my lord returns from his journey, nay.  I meant to speak to you of Bilbo.  But a shadow has been growing on my mind since last night and though I have struggled to stay the tears, it was to no avail.  I am sorry, Frodo."

For a while Frodo forgets about the burning itch in his lower back and behind his ears.  He wants so much to reach out and pat the Queen's hand, but he wonders if it is proper.  

"He shall return shortly, my lady," he says gently.  "I will not say I understand what you feel.  But my Pippin is with the King's host and I miss him too.  But we both know that they are much more needed where they are now."

"Indeed, you are right, Frodo," says the Queen with a very soft, elvish hiccup.  "I know my lord Estel carries a heavy burden on his shoulders.  He is needed everywhere at once, to heal and to rebuild.  I should have been stronger for him, giving him the support and aid that he needs.  But…  But…"

The tears fall more freely now, dripping onto the Queen's mauve dress.  Frodo reaches out tentatively and softly pats the Queen on her arm.  He heaves a sigh of relief when the Queen's face does not emerge looking outraged from behind his sodden handkerchief.  

"The wait has been so long, Frodo, and full of uncertainties and fear.  I have sacrificed so much to be with Estel," the Queen sobs.  "Can he not spare me more of his thought and his time?  We have only been wedded for less than a week and already he has left me alone.  Cannot the affairs of the realm wait?"

Frodo's eyes grow wider as he stares with incredulity at the Queen.  If he had less tact and were not overfond of the Queen, he might have laughed at the situation.  There he is, his whole body buzzing with itchy rash, listening to the woes of the newly-wed Queen of Gondor and Arnor.  But he realizes that to her the separation is hardly laughable, otherwise she would not sit forlornly in the terrace of her magnificent palace, attempting to drown her misery in Lorien wine.  Frodo is tempted to tell the Queen that wine is a poor diversion from sorrow, but he does not have the heart.  Instead he softly touches the Queen's hand and speaks.

"I am sure you are never far from his thought, my lady and he only parts with you with great unwillingness."       

The Queen let loose another dainty hiccup.  "Our time shall end soon," she says softly, gazing sadly beyond the white walls that surround the palatial garden and Frodo wonders what her elvish sight discerns in the distance.  "Every day, nay, every minute that he is far from me weighs heavy on my thought.  Would that we never have to be away from each other anymore…"

She sobs again, shielding her face behind Frodo's handkerchief and the hobbit makes use of the moment by scratching his groin feverishly, cursing under his breath.  

The radiant and shocked face of the Queen appears from behind the handkerchief.  "What did you say, Frodo?"

Frodo crimsons and rebukes himself severely for forgetting the keen hearing of the Queen's kind.  "I am sorry.  I was…"

"Oh, Frodo," the Queen exclaims, "what happened?  Your face…"  She lays the back of her fingers on the hobbit's cheek, while Frodo concentrates on not closing his eyes and sighing in pleasure at the cool, soothing touch.  "And your neck…"  The hand moves to trace Frodo's neck and the hobbit shudders faintly.  "And your hands…"  The Queen takes Frodo's hands in hers, examining the angry red spots.  "You should have the healers see this."

"I thank you, my lady, for your concern," Frodo protests.  "But really, it is naught but a trifle discomfort because of something I ate for elevenses.  I am sure it will soon pass."

"But I cannot let you suffer from this any longer," says the Queen, rising swiftly.  She sways a little and has to hold on to the swing for a while before she is steady on her feet.  "I will see that you are relieved of this ailment immediately."

Frodo slides down from the swing in alarm.  "There is no need to trouble the healers, my lady," he says quickly.  "They are busy as it is, tending to the sick and wounded from the war.  I will not have them taken away from those who need their care more than I do."

To his horror, the Queen slumps back weakly to the swing, her sobbing resuming its earlier fervor.  

"My lady," Frodo begins gingerly, his hand on the Queen's arm.  "I did not mean to offend you by refusing your kind offer, but…"

The Queen is fairly wailing now and Frodo looks around desperately for help.  But the terrace is deserted.  Not even the lady-in-waiting is there.  

He goes to the table and pours half a goblet of the Lorien wine and, patting the Queen's elbow gently, says placatingly, "There, there, your majesty.  If you wish me to see the healers, I shall go then.  But I will not have you weep, my lady, over so commonplace a thing as rashes.  Here, my lady.  Please drink this.  I shall do as you bid.  But please do not cry."

The Queen blows her nose gracefully and takes the goblet from Frodo in her trembling hand.  "Thank you, Frodo," she whispers and takes several delicate sips.  "What a terrible queen you must think I am.  Here you are, hurting terribly, and yet I oblige you to listen to my troubles.  Then you remind me of the heavy weight that our healers are carrying now.  How can I fail to notice that?  How can I dwell in my own sorrow while others are suffering far more grievous losses?  O Elbereth, what would Estel think of me when he learns of this?"

The Queen succumbs to another fit of sobbing and Frodo stands in front of her, bewildered and itching horribly.  "My lady," he starts several times, but the Queen seems to be oblivious of his presence.  Frodo waits until the sniffing dwindles to occasional broken sighs, while scratching his elbow, his neck and between his fingers.

Finally the Queen removes the drenched handkerchief from her face and sits up straight.  "Very well," she says in an uneven voice.  "I will tend to your hurt myself.  It is the least I can do to atone for the thoughtless behavior you beheld today."

Frodo steps back in panic.  An image of the Queen presiding over his bath and administering all manners of lotions and powder over his body flits alarmingly across his mind and he shivers.  "My lady," he appeals fervently.  "My little discomfort hardly warrants…"

But the Queen has stood up.  Frodo looks up at her sorrowful face.  Even after having a sodden handkerchief pressed against her face for so long her looks are breathtaking still.  The remains of her tears glimmered gem-like in the fading sun.  Frodo's words die in his throat.

"Allow me to ease your affliction, dear Frodo," the Queen says softly.  "It will help me forget my misery."

Frodo can only nod mutely.  

"Come," says the Queen, beaming at him.  "I know what you need."

She strides gracefully, if not precisely straight, toward the gate half hidden from view by a mass of flowering vines.  Frodo follows her, trying to think of a way to escape her, his hands busily scratching.

***

 _This is what comes from staying in bed too long_, Frodo thinks glumly, staggering behind the Queen.  He still remembers the endless walking he seemed to be doing in … in Mordor.  How did he ever find the strength to do it?  He was wretched, starved and exhausted, but he distinctly recalls covering many leagues on every darkened day.  But now he cannot even walk the shortcut from the palace garden to the back gate of the seventh tier without panting.  He gulps frantically for air and stops, holding on to a tall pillar, waiting for the world to stop whirling and the darkness to be lifted from his eyes.

The Queen turns and her face registers concern as she glides back and kneels beside Frodo.  "Forgive me, Frodo," she whispers as she cradles his cheek in one cool hand, her eyes brimming with sympathy.  "I am truly sorry.  I forget that you are still recuperating.  Come and sit here awhile."

She takes his hand and guides him to a stone bench just inside the stone wall.  Frodo climbs onto the bench with difficulty and sits back, breathing deeply.  "My apologies, your majesty," he gasps.  "I seem to have been lax in my exercise and…"

The Queen holds his hand and strokes it.  "Do not say that.  We know that your body needs time to fully heal and reclaim its vigor.  Do not be too harsh on yourself."

They sit side by side in silence for sometime.  Frodo wishes he could scratch his progressively maddening itch, but he dares not pull his hand from the Queen's.  He squirms surreptitiously, rubbing his back against the wall, and stops abruptly when the Queen suddenly heaves a trembling sigh and begins to weep again.

Frodo watches helplessly as the Queen launches into another episode of sobbing.  Secretly he feels grateful for the distraction, because while the Queen fumbles with his silk handkerchief, Frodo can scratch anywhere he wants, hastily and blissfully.

But when the tears show no sign of ceasing after a very long while, he becomes worried.  "My lady," he calls softly.  "Maybe we had better return to the palace.  You might benefit from a deep, long sleep.  Things always look brighter after a good night's rest."  And, Frodo privately thinks, he can return to his own chamber and have another long soak in hot water, accompanied by a long, stiff brush and maybe a goblet of that Lorien wine.  Maybe he will forget the itch in his sleep.

"Oh, Frodo, I am sorry," says the Queen huskily.  "I cannot seem to look beyond those gates to the domed vaults of the beds of the kings of old without thinking that someday my Estel will lay him down in one of those chambers and leave me alone.  I cannot bear the thought.  So brief will be the joy and bliss that we shall share.  All too soon I must face that doom that I have chosen."

Frodo looks uncertainly toward the outside of the gate.  In the gathering dusk he can barely descry the shapes of the stately tombs of past kings, and his heart goes out to the Queen.  He springs to his feet and takes the Queen's hand.

"I feel so much better already," he says.  "Perhaps it is time we continue our walk.  Where are we going, my lady?"

The Queen lifts her tear-stained face from her hand and stares at Frodo with a slight smile on her lips.  "We are going to a very pleasant place, my dear Frodo," she says.  Frodo thinks she might have giggled a bit but he is not certain.  Surely Elves do not giggle?  Even one who has chosen to forego deathlessness.  "Estel took me there on the night of our wedding.  A fairer and more wonderful place I cannot imagine, unless it be the green hills of Cerin Amroth where Estel kissed me first, those dark long days ago, when our troth was plighted."

Frodo's eyes open wider as he listens, mortified, to the Queen.  Inwardly he rues reminding her of their destination.  He should have insisted on going back to the palace at once, judging by the Queen's deteriorating state of lucidity, as evinced by her throatily slurred speech and her uncharacteristic plunges into melancholy.  But before he can say another word, the Queen rises and, taking his hand, leads him down a stone path cut into the side of Mount Mindolluin.  

Frodo soon finds himself walking along narrow flights of steps that wind their way down the side of the mountain.  Above him is an arched roof with unlit lamps, but the Queen seems oblivious of the deepening twilight.  Walking sedately to allow Frodo to follow without imposing undue strain on his still frail frame, she is humming a slow elvish song and looking pleased with herself.  Scratching furtively, fretfully and fruitlessly, Frodo tries to see what lies await at the end of the staircase, but not even his sharp hobbit eyes can pierce the thickening shadows.

Yet his nostrils pick up the scent long before he reaches the end of the long path of stairs.  He can only detect the faintest whiff, but it is enough to undo his reasoning and shatter the fragile wall of reality that he is struggling to build.  He stops abruptly, letting go of the Queen's hand, and whirls around frantically with a hitching moan in his throat, scrambling in the opposite direction. 

"Frodo!" calls the Queen, taken aback by the sudden flight.  "Where are you going?"

But Frodo can hardly hear her as he runs blindly up the stairs, gasping and staggering, before finally collapsing in one of the landings, retching uncontrollably.  The world spins around him and his head throbs furiously.  His hand gropes involuntarily at his chest, seeking for the familiar shape and feel of the perished Ring, and when he is aware of the move he gasps in horror, and crawls back whimpering, huddling into a tight, trembling ball in one corner of the marble landing, his face hidden behind his hands and knees.  

The beautiful carved railing that runs the length of the stairs disappears from his eyes.  The cooling breeze ceases.  He sees only an expanse of parched earth, cracked and lifeless, strewn with sharp pebbles and rocks.  The air roils around him, a thick mist reeking of sulphur and the foul stench of decay.  He suddenly feels again the utter weariness that seems to clot and freeze his blood; he feels his muscles cry out in pain as they strive to move, as his will battles a growing darkness that obliterates all that he is.  The pain tears a haunting wail from the depths of his searing lungs and his eyes burn as he watches in helpless silence the columns of flame that rise restlessly to lick the shadowy roof of the chamber of doom.  

No.  No.  

"It's over, over, over," he chants hoarsely, rocking back and forth.  "Saved, we are saved.  Saved.  A memory.  Nothing more.   It's over, over, over."

He leans back on the wall, still gasping, and only then feels the hot tears on his face.  He feels weak and shaky, and frustrated rage pounds a mighty ache in his head.  A whiff of sulphurous gust, he reflects bitterly, and he is helplessly transported to the moments when the scant remnant of his defense evaporated, leaving him naked and prey at last to the merciless deceit of the Ring.  The slightest tug on his memory and he re-lives that spinning, breathless sensation of the blackest shame and despair mingling with utter exhilaration and barely contained joy, when he finally surrendered to the triumph of the Ring.  Reeling from the shock, he runs his hand over the smooth wall behind him, wondering if Minas Tirith—safe, majestic Minas Tirith—is real.  Maybe he never left the Chamber of Fire and all that surrounds him now is nothing more than illusions; for him there is no more beauty and joy, only the blackened lips of a fathomless gorge, spewing flames and foul smoke.  

He stares silently at the curved walls of the seventh tier before him, weakened by the knowledge that he is trapped in the Ring and no path shall be able bring him home.  Darkness descends all around him, hiding his tears.  He sniffs and fumbles in his pocket for his handkerchief and finds none.

The Queen!

With a suddenness that makes him momentarily dizzy, Frodo stands and looks frantically around.  He does not remember seeing the Queen walk past him and he is certain that the Queen would never leave him alone and suffering in the dark.  But her mind is impaired by wine, he reminds himself apprehensively, and she might injure herself unwittingly…

He rushes down the flights of step, trying to ignore the sharp protests of his body at the sudden action.  "My lady, my lady!" he calls, but his voice sounds reedy and hoarse.  Another faint trace of sulphur in the air brings him to a standstill, his fingers digging into his arms as he curls whimpering, shaking his head to rid the assault of memories of fire, hissing breath and razor teeth, despair, shame and horror…

A shrill cry rends the night air and Frodo's head snaps up.  He forces himself to walk, lurching and stumbling, to where he thinks the sound comes from; his mind reeling from visions of the Queen wounded and the King grieving for her.  The air makes him sick and all his instinct implores him to run away.  In the dark he chooses his path by touch alone.  He finds the entrance to a cave at the end of stairs and, shaking and gasping, makes his way in.

***

The stone corridor is dark, but Frodo can see a soft glow at the end of the passage.  He inches his way in, his hand on the wall to steady his step, his feet burdened by the reluctance to go deeper into the tunnel.  It feels and looks so much like….  Like ….    He swallows with difficulty, struggles to shake the memory of Sammath Naur, and repeats mechanically to himself that he has to make sure the Queen has not suffered any harm.

The tunnel ends in a large vaulted chamber.  At the far end, water falls in sinuous layers over stones rounded and smoothed by countless years of running stream.  The water splashes into a circular pool that is almost completely hidden by thick, swirling steam.  Almost.  Because for a very mortifying second Frodo finds himself looking straight at the Queen's naked back.  

Her sensitive elven ears must have caught his involuntary squeak, because she turns and calls him gaily.  "Come, Frodo.  This is what you need to cure those nasty rashes."

Frodo swallows hard and stares at the water.  "I heard you cry out, my lady, a while ago.  Are you hurt?" 

"Hurt?" the Queen repeats with a laugh.  "Nay.  It was indeed a cry of bliss.  This water has the virtue of washing away the weariness of the limbs and the mind.  I do not know why I did not think of coming here before when I began to miss my lord Estel.  Come, Frodo.  A good soak should help ease your discomfort."

"T-thank you, my lady," says Frodo, staring fixedly at the water rolling down the sleek, white rock face.  "I believe the water will be too deep for me."

"No need to fear, Frodo," the Queen says laughingly, as she wades toward where Frodo is standing.  "You can sit on the steps yonder.  You will find that the water will only be chest-high there.  Your chest-high, Frodo."  And she laughs again.  

"I…I fear the water is too hot, my lady," says Frodo lamely.

"It is not, Frodo dear.  'Tis true that the water bubbling from deep inside the mountain is near to boiling.  But the water falling along that cave wall is icy cold from the summit of Mindolluin, and together they make the most pleasant warm bath," says the Queen reassuringly.  

"I…I thank you, my lady," says Frodo weakly.  "Perhaps I will some other time.  I do not feel inclined to have a bath now."

The Queen now floats right before him, gracefully bobbing in the steamy water.  She reaches out and seizes Frodo's hand.  Frodo jolts back with a gasp, but the Queen's wet hand is firm around his.     

"Is it so disagreeable a thing, my dear Frodo, to bathe with me?"  There is a sorrowful pleading note in her dulcet voice, punctuated by elegant elvish hiccups.  "Do I not deserve your company?"

"I…" Frodo stammers, trying to determine whether it will be more polite to stare at the marble statue near the steps to the pool, or to meet the Queen's mournful eyes, which also means getting a disrespectful glimpse of her bare torso.  He opts for the statue.  "I am honored to have your company and thankful for your concerns about my health.  But… but I fear it is hardly proper for me to take a bath with you."

The Queen contemplates this for a moment.  "You are right," she says softly afterwards.  "Forgive me."

Then with a gleeful shriek she tugs at Frodo's hand.  The hobbit hovers ridiculously over the rim of the pool, flapping both hands in a futile attempt to regain balance, then with a great splash, tumbles into the water.  The Queen whoops merrily and swims away laughing.

After an initial shock of a sudden plunge into hot water, Frodo's instinct kicks in and he surfaces, spluttering and gasping, to see the Queen looking at him with a mischievous smile from across the expanse of steaming flurry of water.  He scowls at her—privately grateful for the fact that he can only see her from the neck up—but his look of intense annoyance seems to amuse her instead and she laughs.

"O, the halfling swims!" she declares with the air of someone who has just made a very important discovery.  

 "I do indeed, my lady," says Frodo testily  "But I would much prefer to show this particular skill in quite different circumstances, if you please."

"But you cannot swim with your clothes on, can you, Frodo?  They hinder your motions," the Queen says meekly.  "And I do not think the water can work its full virtue on your ailing skin if it has to struggle through layers of thick clothing."

I am not going to remove my clothes in front of the Queen, Frodo thinks vehemently, gritting his teeth.  What would anyone think if they should stumble into the chamber and see the Queen and the celebrated halfling with nothing but their skins on?  He is suddenly fiercely glad that the King will not be returning any time soon.  What would Aragorn do if he should find his wife in the company of a naked, scratching hobbit?

That last thought reminds him painfully of his malady.  He still feels that dreadful urge to scratch everywhere.  And the water does feel wonderful lapping against his bare feet and neck.  If he were with any other company but the Queen, he would have jumped at the opportunity to take off his clothes and let the water caress his burning skin.  But as it is…

"Do you want me to help you with your clothes, Frodo?" the Queen asks solicitously.  "Perhaps you find it difficult to undress while staying afloat?"

"No, no, my lady!" comes Frodo's panicked reply.  "Thank you.  But I am perfectly capable of undressing myself."  He blushes profusely as he says it.

"Very well then.  Go on," the Queen smiles encouragingly.  

"I will thank you if you could look elsewhere while I take off my clothes, my lady," says Frodo weakly, feeling immensely foolish.

"Oh, forgive me!" the Queen giggles.  "Appalling manner, is it not, to stare so."  She turns around to face the waterfall, laughing merrily. 

Frodo shakes his head and tries to see if he can still get out of the unspeakable embarrassment of having to swim naked before the Queen.

Yet the water _does feel heavenly against his skin._

And the Queen _is very much drunk and poses very little danger._

And surely she will remember _none of this, knowing how powerful the Lorien-wine is.  _

And the itch _is getting unbearably tormenting now.  _

His hands reach for the brooch that clasps his cloak under his throat.  He watches with alarmed glee as the light elven cloak floats away on the steamy surface.  The Queen still has her back to him.  She is bobbing under the waterfall, squealing at the cold, before ducking into the warm water again, giggling and singing a merry elven song.

Frodo takes his coat off and watches with wide, disbelieving eyes, as it drifts away and bumps into his cloak.  His waistcoat meets the same fate, leaving him with nothing but his shirt, with its sleeves billowing in the water, and his breeches.  He nervously glances at the Queen who is now floating on her back, her hair a dark halo around her serene face.  He decides that it is quite safe to dispose of his shirt.  In short order, the cream-colored shirt joins the other articles of clothing on the surface of the pool.

And oh, what bliss it is to feel the water stroking his itchy skin!  The hot bath in his chamber had been relaxing, but this!  Perhaps it has something to do with the porous nature of the rock that makes up the walls of the pool, or maybe it is the unpredictable spurts of hot water that surge from the unseen bottom of it, but there are whirling currents in the water that wrap around him, massaging his skin gently but oh so delightfully, the most pleasurable sensations he can ever imagine from a bath.

If only he can get that water to swirl around his itching bottom.  

He steals a glance at the Queen, determinedly fixing his gaze on her face and screwing his eyes shut when they start to veer down her shapely neck.  But she is still floating lazily on her back, muttering something in Elvish, sometimes smiling, sometimes hiccupping.  A frown creases Frodo's brow as he contemplates the dangers of swimming under the influence of nearly two bottles of Lorien-wine.  If the Queen drowns, there is little he can do to rescue her.  Not only does his weakened frame lack the strength to heave the Queen up those stone steps to the pool side, he also cannot imagine swimming backward with the Queen's bare back pressed against his own unclothed chest.  

Another shot of violent itch flares on his inner thigh, putting an abrupt end to any thought of the Queen's silky skin brushing against his own itchy one, and he once again agonizes over removing his breeches and letting the water work its wondrous touch over his whole body.  

But not with the Queen there…  Frodo bites his lip nervously, fingering the buttons of his breeches.  

Go away, please, he implores silently.  Leave me alone with my itching skin and this miraculous pool…

The Queen yawns charmingly and twirls about to look at Frodo, who gives her a weak, insincere smile.   

"Is it not helping, this water, with its ripples and warmth?" she asks.

"It is, my lady.  Very much," replies Frodo, who was thankful that his cloak, floating nearby, is blocking her eyes from seeing him scratching his lower belly.  "Thank you."

"I am glad you enjoy this, dear Frodo," the Queen smiles indulgently.  She stretches her hands upward in a lazy gesture of sleepiness and Frodo ducks under the surface so he does not have to witness it.  

"I think I shall rest for a while, Frodo," says the Queen, moments later, as she swims leisurely to the pool side.  "Let me know when you are ready.  I should very much like for us to have dinner together."

She breaks the surface in a single, limber motion and Frodo catches a glimpse of an expanse of rosy white skin before he hastily dips his face into the water and tries very hard to remember all of the most horrid expressions that Lobelia Sackville-Baggins has ever shot at him.  

When he dares to come up for air, he finds that the Queen has already wrapped a violet robe around her slender form and is lying down on a sofa in a recess built into the wall.  Frodo heaves a sigh of relief.  He looks at the Queen for sometime to check if she is truly asleep, and when he is finally certain, makes a short work of his breeches, which soon find their place among the other drifting clothes.  

***

"Mr. Frodo?" 

Frodo stifles a scream as he whirls around to find Sam crouching by the pool side.  

"Sam!  How did you find me here?" he asks, probably a bit more harshly than he means to.  After all, he does not expect Sam to know about the hot water spring where Aragorn and Arwen spent their first wedded night…  The thought alone makes Frodo blush.

"The lady-in-waiting told me you came to visit the Queen, sir," says Sam, and is he smirking?  "Then the guard said you and the Queen passed the gate but did not go to the kings' tombs.  I found the stairs, sir, and I thought you and the Queen might have gone that way, and so I came here."

"This is…" Frodo starts, then halts, frowning.  He is suddenly aware of his nudity, and of his clothes scattered in the whirling water, and the Queen slumbering peacefully in the sofa, her robe clinging onto her wet skin.  "It is not …"

He swims closer and extends a hand for Sam's inspection.  "I had rashes," he proclaims.  

Sam takes his master's hand and scrutinizes it, clucking sympathetically.  "Nasty one, this," he says.  

"Crab," explains Frodo.  "For elevenses.  They caught it in Lebennin."

Sam nods solemnly.  

"I tried your lotion, and Pippin's powder.  They did not work.  The Queen…  She graciously allowed me to bathe here.  The water has … healing powers."  Why does he have to tell Sam all this? 

"Are you feeling better now, sir?" asks Sam.  

"Much better, Sam," says Frodo with an emphatic nod.  

"Good, because," Sam turns Frodo's hand in his, "you're starting to look like a raisin, sir."

Frodo bursts out laughing as he pulls his hand from Sam's and splashes a good bit of water at the younger hobbit.  " A raisin, eh?"

Sam chuckles as he wipes the water from his face.  "But what to do now, Mr. Frodo?" he says with a slight gesture of his chin at the Queen.

Frodo sighs.  "I don't know, Sam.  It does not seem right to wake her up now.  But I cannot leave her here.  She might catch a chill.  And imagine waking up alone in the middle of the night here.  And she's feeling wretched as it is already because of Aragorn's leaving."

"I can get the ladies in waiting to come here," suggests Sam.

"Oh, good, Sam!  But…"  Frodo casts another glance at his clothes strewn over the water.  What will they think if they see these?  He scratches his chin thoughtfully.  Finally he says, "All right, Sam, this is what you have to do.  Go back to our place and fetch me some dry clothes and several blankets.  Bring some food and drink too.  I think we should stay here until the Queen wakes up.  It would not do to have her maids speak ill of her should they find her with me here.  When she is awake, I think we can take her back to our place.  Come morning, we walk her back to the palace and tell everyone who asks that we have invited the Queen to our place because she seems to need our company.  What do you think?"

"Splendid, sir," says Sam.  "I will tell Legolas and Gimli that we are spending time with the Queen."

"Good," approves Frodo.  "But, before you leave, could you get me one of those towels, Sam?  I seem to see some…  Yes, there.  My!  They do think of everything when it comes to bathing, don't they?  Thank you, Sam.  Put it there.  You may go now."

Sam has reached the top of the steps when Frodo calls him back.

"Yes, sir?"

"The King needs not know about this," Frodo says gravely.

"Very well, sir," Sam nods.  

"It's nothing…  Nothing happened …  That is, the Queen and I …" He falters as he tries to explain and he realizes with embarrassment that his cheeks feel hot as he speaks.  Sam looks at him patiently, his head cocked slightly sideways. 

"The King needs know nothing of this," Frodo sums up feebly.

"No, sir.  Nothing whatsoever," agrees Sam.  

"Thank you, Sam," sighs Frodo.  "Go now and be quick about it."

He dunks his head in the water and yells into the current.

After he collects his waterlogged clothes and heaps them by the pool side, Frodo wraps himself in the towel Sam had put on the topmost step.  The man-sized towel cocoons him comfortably and the soft fabric is gentle on his still raw skin.  From the basket that holds a number of downy towels larger than the one he is wearing, he fetches another and lays it over the Queen's sleeping form.  

"I fear that you shall suffer a mighty hangover, my lady, when you 're awake" he whispers with a smile as he tucks the towel snugly under the Queen's chin.  "But do not worry.  You shall not be alone."

The Queen stirs, murmuring indistinctly.  One of her delicate hands rests slack outside the blanketing towel.  Frodo holds it carefully, kissing the beautiful fingers gently and laying it on the towel with an affectionate pat.

When the King returns, they will talk at great length, Frodo quietly resolves.  He shall have to petition a ban against Lorien-wine.  And Lebennin giant crab.

~fin~   


End file.
